


The Yuletide Horror

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Food, Holiday, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is there any holiday tradition more frightening than fruitcake?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yuletide Horror

**Author's Note:**

> Written for girlingoldboots for the 2010 [221B_slash_fest](http://community.livejournal.com/221b_slash_fest/)  
> Beta and Britpicking thanks to Unovis and Tehomet

Sherlock was absorbed in his laptop when John came home from the clinic. John cleared a space on the table and moved a pen closer to Sherlock, then set his bag down and began unloading a small pile of brightly wrapped parcels.

Sherlock glanced up briefly. "What's all this?"

"Gifts from the clinic," John said. "It's Christmas, Sherlock."

"Ah," Sherlock said absently, pressing keys and frowning at his laptop screen.

John sat down and opened a promising package. It promised a bit more than it delivered. For it contained a small, dark, heavy fruitcake. "Well," John said. "Not my favourite kind, but it might be all right. Homemade, by the look of it."

He put it down in front of Sherlock, who looked up. And recoiled. He shoved his chair back and stood up so fast it fell over. He backed away from the table, his face white. "For God's sake, John, _cover it up._ "

John, astonished, hastily returned the fruitcake to the bag. He stood up and took Sherlock by the shoulders. "Breathe, Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed his lips in a straight line and closed his eyes. A shudder went through his whole body, but when he opened his eyes again, he was calm. "Sorry. It takes me that way sometimes. I wasn't prepared."

"I'm sorry, I had no idea," John said, "Do you want something? Tea? Scotch?"

"Scotch, please," Sherlock said, sitting heavily on the couch.

John fetched the Scotch and two glasses, and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock drank straight from the bottle. John took the bottle away from him and filled a glass. Then he poured two fingers into a glass for himself and drained it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock took another healthy gulp of Scotch and nodded. "I must have been about five, the first time I saw one," he said finally. "It was Christmas. Of course. The kind of large family gathering that in itself is enough to -- well. I had -- an uncle." His eyes closed. "He always brought fruitcake his housekeeper made. It was a monstrosity, John. You should have seen it." He grimaced. "It's just as well you didn't. It was as big as a car tyre and about the same colour and consistency, since it had been aged. _Aged,_ John. Who knows how long it sat congealing in her dank cellar, doused once a month in foul spirits, changing subtly and horribly as it absorbed the darkness that surrounded it, finally to coalesce into the black, inedible, indescribable horror my uncle placed on our table? I had nightmares for months."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand in sympathy. "Something very like that happened to me when I was a boy," he said. "In my case, it was a neighbour who brought it. Not quite such a horror -- just one of those gray, tasteless bricks one gets from the shops." He considered. "It probably wasn't aged, it was just old when it was made, you know what I mean?" Sherlock shuddered beside him. "It was certainly aged by the time it finally disappeared; it became a family joke and every Christmas it was back under the tree with one of our names on it."

"How amusing." Sherlock's lips twisted. "It disappeared? No one ate it, surely?"

"One of us might have finally buried it under the rosebushes." John grinned. "The rosebushes were never quite the same."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's a wonder children survive Christmas at all."

"Luckily," John said, "I had a friend at uni. He taught me to stop being afraid of fruitcake -- to _like_ it. It was an adult taste, he said. Not for children. He taught me a lot of -- adult things." John's voice went soft, remembering.

Sherlock elbowed him back into the present.

John kissed Sherlock's scowl. "I can teach you, Sherlock," he whispered.

"But -- how?"

"Leave it to me," John said.

*******

Sherlock studied the slice of soft, golden cake on the plate in front of him. "This doesn't look like fruitcake."

John picked up his fork. "But it is. The first step in overcoming one's fear of fruitcake is a taste of Dundee cake."

"Dundee cake? "

"Yes. Eat. It goes well with brandy, so you may have a taste of this," John set a glass at Sherlock's elbow, "when you've taken a bite of that."

"Dundee cake," Sherlock said dubiously, but he took a bite. He consumed more brandy than fruitcake, but it was a start, and the successful experiment put him in quite a holiday mood. His kisses tasted of brandy and sugar.

*******

"This looks more like… like…" Sherlock shuddered.

"It isn't, though," John assured him, placing a plate in front of him. "For one thing, there is no glacé fruit in it at all. None of those plasticky, rubbery bits. Just dried fruit -- raisins and currants, apples and apricots, things like that. Soaked in rum."

Sherlock perked up. "Rum?"

"Dark, spiced rum," John said.

"And to accompany it --?" Sherlock said hopefully.

John poured a glass. "Rum." He smiled.

John had a very spiced Sherlock in his bed later, and it was glorious.

*******

"I think I'm getting the hang of fruitcake," Sherlock said. "What's this?"

"Mrs Hudson made it. Don't worry, I've vetted it."

"It's got the rubbery bits," Sherlock said, examining his portion.

"They're not too rubbery. She soaks them in something first. Not rum," John said, chewing. "Whisky, maybe. Drambuie?"

"It's certainly got a high alcoholic content," Sherlock agreed. "And -- something else."

"Yes, I noticed it too. I can't quite place it. Tastes familiar, though. Nostalgic."

"Nostalgic," Sherlock echoed thoughtfully. "Oh!" his face lit up. "From your pre-med days, by any chance? A notorious recipe with a certain illicit ingredient?"

"What --? Oh my God." John stared at his fruitcake and suppressed an urge to giggle. "But -- Mrs Hudson --"

"Is a very naughty baker." Sherlock wagged a finger. He took another bite of fruitcake.

John laughed. Sherlock joined him, and through their mirth, they somehow managed to eat all of Mrs Hudson's fruitcake -- or the evidence, as Sherlock called it -- and the biscuits that had accompanied it -- and went foraging in the kitchen, though luckily they were saved by Mrs Hudson, who appeared with another tray piled high with treats, smiled down at them wrapped around each other on the floor giggling helplessly, and disappeared.

*******

John carefully sat down at the front room table, clutching his cup. Sherlock had his laptop open in front of him.

"What are you doing?" John winced at the sound of Sherlock slowly pecking at the keys. "Can you turn that down?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "I'm conjugating irregular Spanish verbs."

"Why?"

"Trying to get all my neurons firing in the right direction," Sherlock said. "You look terrible."

John closed his eyes. "My neurons are firing off every which way, I'm sure." Then he smiled. _But it was worth it._ He opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him through his eyelashes, a half-smile on his lips.

"Find a nice verb to conjugate?" John said.

Sherlock's smile flashed wider. " _Abrazar_." He started pecking again.

John smiled and absently picked up another of his Christmas gifts from the clinic. He tore away the sparkly paper. Ah. A tin of liquorice allsorts. Oh well. He put it down and was suddenly aware that the pecking had stopped. He looked up. Sherlock was staring at the tin, white-faced with horror.

"Here we go again," John said.

  
\--End--


End file.
